


louder than love (that's what we were)

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donovan sticks her head into Lestrade's office. "We've got another noise complaint from Baker Street," she says, tersely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	louder than love (that's what we were)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by part of an old sherlockbbc_fic [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=122573151#t122573151). Shameless fluff, because, well. _Mondays_.

Donovan sticks her head into Lestrade's office. "We've got another noise complaint from Baker Street," she says, tersely.

Lestrade groans. "For fuck's _sake_. What's he done now?" It's rhetorical, but Donovan shrugs. Lestrade scrubs a hand over his face before continuing. "Any shots?" because whether or not Sherlock's firing a gun is going to directly influence the amount of paperwork he'll be doing today.

"Not this time," Donovan says, and Lestrade knows this is one of those moments she fucking _hates_ her job.

He empathises.

"Violin?" he asks, half-heartedly, because one day he'll just confiscate the bloody thing, but Donovan shakes her head slightly.

"Just a lot of yelling," she says, and Lestrade sighs. "We can send someone else," she says, because noise complaints really _aren't_ their division, but - well. Sherlock Holmes kind of _is_.

"No, it's - fine," he says, reluctantly, getting to his feet. "I've still got some questions about the Ben Richardson case."

 

*

 

"Not a case," Sherlock says, thoughtfully, from the sofa, when he enters the flat - and he can probably tell by Lestrade's _footsteps_ or something - "Not a new one," he amends, glancing, disinterestedly, at the folder in Lestrade's hand.

"No," Lestrade agrees.

There's a door opening down the hallway, and John appears, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. "There's nothing for breakfast," he says, and Sherlock ignores him. "Morning, Greg," he adds, before cocking his head to the side a little, coming to a stop. "What's wrong?" and _damn_ if Sherlock's deductive skills aren't rubbing off on him a little.

( _Rubbing off_. Jesus).

"John," he replies. Then, niceties out of the way, he continues, "Had a noise complaint." Short and sweet; best to get this over and done with.

"We weren't _that_ loud," John protests, immediately, and Sherlock just looks irritated.

"Let me guess," he says, lip curling slightly.

"Mrs. Turner's?" John asks, almost under his breath, throwing the towel over his shoulder.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies, just as quietly, shifting on the sofa, robe gaping, and John does a small, barely noticeable double-take at the grey shirt Sherlock's wearing underneath. Christ.

(Lestrade and Sherlock both ignore it).

"Just-" Lestrade cuts them off, sighs heavily. This definitely ranks right up there in the ten worst moments of his professional life. "Next time you're ... _having a row_ ," he says, deliberately, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet for a moment, and John looks like he's close to doubling right back into the bathroom, "keep it down a bit, yeah?"

"We weren't having a _row_ ," Sherlock says, in an imitation of Lestrade's accent, before murmuring, "And yes, John, do try to be quieter next time," and John's eyebrows rise.

"Me?" he asks, incredulously. "I wasn't - there were _two_ of us there, if memory serves, _Sherlock_."

"Yes, but my mouth was - otherwise occupied. For long stretches," Sherlock says, giving John a quick once-over, and _fuck_ , top five, easy. Lestrade doesn't get paid anywhere _near_ enough to deal with this.

" _Je_ -sus," John hisses, mortified, very pointedly not looking at Lestrade (which is fine with him. More than fine, honestly). "Do you not understand what's going on here?"

Sherlock looks thoughtful, for a moment. "No. I really don't."

(Doesn't seem to care much, either, and that's - that's good. That's normal).

"We're using ' _have a row_ '," and Lestrade half-smiles at John's use of air quotes, "as a - a euphemism."

There's a pause, then Sherlock breathes, "Oh. _Oh_ ," eyes lighting up in understanding, and they're almost home free until, suddenly frowning - "What for?" he demands.

"It's polite," John replies, and Sherlock snorts. "Most people," John continues, with surprising patience, "prefer to keep their-" he risks a quick, apologetic glance at Lestrade, " _sex lives_ private."

"Most people-"

"Are idiots, yes, I know," John finishes, and Sherlock almost looks pleased.

"That's a terrible euphemism," Sherlock decides, turning back to Lestrade.

"If you stopped leaving body parts in the kitchen, you could probably cut down on those actual rows," Lestrade mutters, because he can see something on the kitchen table he's not going to look too hard at, and John glances over at him, all, _Ta, never thought of suggesting that myself_ , and Sherlock glances over at _John_ , who reads the unspoken question easily.

"It's fine," he says, dismissively, "Life would be dull if I didn't have to worry about toes in the crisper."

Sherlock's expression is inscrutable. "Freezer," he finally corrects, and John huffs a surprised laugh.

"Good to know."

"You had questions," Sherlock nods at the file Lestrade's still clutching.

"Another time," he replies. He just - _out_. He needs to get out of this flat.

"Right," John says, with a remarkably straight face.

"Let's just - forget this conversation ever happened," Lestrade says, decisively. With finality.

"Cheers," John says, in quick agreement, and Sherlock just shrugs.

"Fine."

"... Cuppa?" John offers, after a long silence, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, almost helplessly.


End file.
